


Compensation

by blackrose_juri



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Only One Bed, Vaginal Fingering, coronabeth is a bad roommate (but cam is fine), f/f/f threesome, lingering tension from that one time cor pantsed judith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28917171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrose_juri/pseuds/blackrose_juri
Summary: Judith, Corona, and Cam share a room and a mattress on a BoE shuttle. It goes exactly as you'd expect, although Judith manages to be surprised, somehow.HtN canon-compliant.
Relationships: Judith Deuteros/Coronabeth Tridentarius, Judith Deuteros/Coronabeth Tridentarius/Camilla Hect
Comments: 21
Kudos: 61
Collections: TLT Kink Meme





	Compensation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, this fun little piece is for the [tlt kink meme](https://tlt-kink.dreamwidth.org/) prompt, "there is only one bed." A classic. Hope ya like!

There is only one bed. 

In almost any other scenario, this would not be an issue; Judith had been a recruit, once, required to sleep back-to-back with her peers on unsympathetic cots, all of them packed like sardines in tight quarters. Truthfully, she doesn’t recall the last time she’d slept alone. Implicit in her lifelong partnership with Lieutenant Dyas had been the assumption that they’d share the rooms reserved for the Captain of the Cohort—and indeed, they’d correctly predicted that Judith would receive that title.

This isn’t the first time she’s shared a bed with _two_ people, either, although those circumstances are a) incomparable to these by nature, and b) still protected under a non-disclosure agreement to which Judith remains bound, on principle, even within the comfort of her own memories.

One must stay vigilant, after all.

Cohabitation history aside, nothing could have prepared her for her current living arrangements: a cheap, flimsy mattress on the cold floor of an enemy shuttle, shared between herself, Camilla Hect, and Coronabeth Tridentarius. The former isn’t an issue. In fact, Judith has cultivated a respect for the cavalier—a proper warrior, and certainly the bane of every Sixth House stereotype. The latter, however, is just as much of a thorn _now_ as she was _back then_ —the stem of a rose, baring in plain sight her intent to prick you. 

Coronabeth “Tease You At Every Opportunity” Tridentarius. Coronabeth “Steal The Middle Of The Bed And All The Covers, Too” Tridentarius. Coronabeth “I Still Think It’s Funny To Mention _The Incident_ ” Tridentarius. 

Judith grinds her teeth on her way back to their chamber and digs her white-gloved fingers into her palms. What a sick joke this is, spending the days on tiresome propaganda sessions and Edenite “community service,” passing the nights on the cold metal tiles while Corona’s knee reliably manages to _find its way to her bad side_ , no matter how far she rolls away.

And now, as she grasps the door handle, she’s already weary; she catches the sound of that familiar, self-satisfied, breathy laugh on the other side, and she knows precisely what to expect when she steps through the threshold. 

What she sees is precisely _not_ what she’d expected: Coronabeth sprawled on her back atop the makeshift bed, her nightgown pushed far past her thighs and up her stomach, her lavishly-ringed fingers tangled in dark, bluntly-cut hair at the junction of her thighs where Camilla’s head rests; Coronabeth’s thick legs and Camilla’s compact, muscular shoulders—naked, sweat-slick, half-hidden beneath thin sheets. 

Corona’s laughing, she realizes, not at some stupid joke of her own, as she often does, but at the tail end of— 

“Oh,” Judith says. And then, “Oh my _God_.”

“ _Judy_.” Coronabeth sits upright and grins, her long, golden storm of hair thoroughly disheveled, the short sleeves of her shift halfway down her arms. Camilla’s shoulders tense, briefly, and then relax, as if she’s already made her peace with the absurdity of the situation. She rises onto her haunches, but doesn’t turn. 

Judith’s mouth is open. She closes it, steps one foot back, but there’s chatter in the corridor, and she shuts the door behind her in her haste, squandering her chance to turn tail. 

Again, there’s that breathy laugh, followed by, horrifyingly, “Good, you’ve decided to join us.” 

“I will _not_ be joining—”

“Cam’s rather good with her ton—”

Camilla interjects, “Princess, I don’t think we should—”

_Why was she walking towards them?_

“Princess Coronabeth, you are every bit as inconsiderate as you were as a child, and it would do you good to—”

“Come a little closer,” Corona says, “and I’ll show you ‘considerate’,” and somewhere far, _far_ in the back of her head, Judith hears a voice—a whisper, an old, friendly taunt: 

_Chickenshits don’t get beer._

And Judith pushes her right hand into Corona’s face, not at all gently, the butt of her palm under her chin and fingers digging into her cheeks, into the point of her nose; and Corona kisses them and takes the leather of her glove between her teeth, eyes gleaming up at her like sharpened amethysts. Judith retracts her hand—perhaps to slap her, she isn’t sure; Cam catches her wrist before the urge solidifies—and that same glove hangs from Corona’s mouth, now, as a prize. She refuses to interrogate what this does for her.

Camilla rises to stand behind her, and those rough, cavalier’s hands slide down her forearms and reach around her to unbutton her shirt; Judith’s already breathing hard and fast by the time Corona stands on her knees to unbuckle her belt. She swears to herself at the acknowledgement that this is actually the _second_ occasion on which Coronabeth has hooked those delicate fingers over the waistband of her trousers and—

“Say, Judy, doesn’t this remind you of—”

“Shut up. Shut up.” At this rate, she might pop a blood vessel. “Shut the _fuck_ up, Corona.” Judith hates— _hates_ —that she has to accept Corona’s offered support to step out of her boots and free her legs, and as soon as the opportunity presents itself, she rids herself of the vision of that smug face; she clenches her fist in that thick, golden hair and pulls Coronabeth flush against her, holds her tight.

Judith moans—not because Corona’s tongue is hot and slick on her clit, and not because Camilla presses divine kisses into her neck and slips her strong arms under Judith’s to cup her breasts, but because right now, she’s claiming compensation for several years’ worth of Third House-flavored migraines. She very pointedly does _not_ call a name or offer any affirmations when her knees grow weak, and she bites down on her bottom lip, instead; and when Camilla gently guides her down into her lap on the mattress, Judith makes sure to pull Corona’s hair until she hisses through her teeth and drags her into a harsh kiss to reclaim the taste of herself from her tongue.

It’s Camilla’s fingers buried inside her and the pressure of her palm that finally sends her trembling over the edge as the three of them sit together, limbs tangled and lips at each other’s throats, and Judith’s last, wonderfully coherent thought is one of pure relief and mischievous amusement:

There isn’t a single soul in this God-forsaken corner of the universe who’d give enough of a fuck about this for Coronabeth Tridentarius to properly gloat about it.

She’ll be _devastated._

And it’s with this sliver of reassurance that Judith Deuteros—for the first night since she’d been forced to call this shuttle room a home—sleeps with a smile on her face, and sleeps _hard._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! (Also, thanks [darlingofdots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/search?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bquery%5D=darlingofdots) for cancelling that one typo.) 
> 
> I hope I've dragged a few folks down another rarepair hellshaft. :)


End file.
